


In the Wreckage of Heartache and Hindsight

by poetzproblem



Series: Don't Blink [41]
Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Family, Grief/Mourning, Miscarriage, Motherhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29072367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetzproblem/pseuds/poetzproblem
Summary: The current numbness of her mind and body doesn’t quite translate to her heart, though the world around her seems still and silent despite the hustle and bustle of city life going on as if nothing is wrong. The odd dichotomy carries her into her apartment; dark and quiet. She really didn’t expect anything else, but it suffocates her all the same.
Relationships: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Series: Don't Blink [41]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/20608
Comments: 22
Kudos: 74





	In the Wreckage of Heartache and Hindsight

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** Number 41 of the _Don't Blink_ series set after _Awakening Inside A Dream_ and the ficlet _Something In Your Eyes Is Making Such A Fool of Me_ and before _Falling Fearless So Young So Foolish._
> 
> Unbetaed so all mistakes are my own.
> 
> More than a month late and written in fits and starts, so likely not up to the usual standards. Mostly just an attempt to actually write something again after a really bad year.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Glee_ or the characters. I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

_'Cause in the wreckage of heartache and hindsight_  
_A new beginning starts to unfold_  
_And if you let it, it just might save your life._  
_~Gravity Happens, Kate Voegele_

* * *

"Can I kiss Mama g'bye?"

Callie's hazel eyes are alight with guileless excitement for a new day, oblivious as only a child can be to the barbs of agony tightening around Quinn's heart at her innocent question. "Mama's still not feeling well." A truth diluted by immense understatement. "We need to let her rest."

The tiny pout on Callie's face is an exact replica of her mama's, and Quinn calls up all of her meager acting skills to plaster a reassuring smile on her face as she reaches out to gently brush her knuckles over her daughter's rosy cheek, finding herself soothed by the simple contact. "But I bet she'll want to hear all about your day when you get home." A precarious wager, but it nevertheless chases away Calliope's disappointment and relights the happy twinkle in her eyes.

"We're making snowmans to hang on the tree."

"Snowmen," Quinn absently corrects, picking up Callie's cereal bowl to place in the sink. She'll worry about washing it later.

Callie shakes her head. "No. Miss Polly said just one. But lots of ones 'cause there's so many of us." Her face now reads as mildly exasperated at having to explain what should have been obvious to her mother, and Quinn can't quite decide if that expression is more similar to Rachel's or her own.

The smile that tugs at Quinn's lips now is a sincere one, and she wears it proudly while she carefully lifts Callie up from the high top chair to deposit her safely on the floor. Her quiet huff of exertion reflects just how quickly her baby girl is growing up. "Well, then...let's get you to school so you can go build a snowman."

If Rachel were here, she'd likely start singing that infernal song, but—

"I hafta get my backpack," Callie announces, already running off in the direction of her bedroom. There's really nothing inside of her backpack that she'll particularly need, Quinn has come to discover—most of what she'll use for the activities that Miss Polly assigns her pre-K students are available inside her classroom—but Callie (and most of the other kids) like to carry their own bags with some personal items just to show off whatever character or color palette they're currently into. She suspects the pleasure her daughter gets from carrying her backpack everyday will fade once it's filled with ten pounds of books and homework.

Quinn follows Callie down the hallway. "Get your sweater too," she calls after her. The temperature outside hasn't completely plummeted yet, but the days are turning colder, and the building that houses the Brownstone School is more than one hundred years old. Even the best heating systems can't fully battle the sneaky drafts that drift in through the crevices in some of the older buildings in the city.

When she reaches Callie's room, she catches sight of her daughter rummaging through her backpack for something or other, but her gaze soon drifts to the closed door of the master bedroom, and she feels the vice around her heart tighten once again. Ignoring her own earlier warning to Callie, she pads over to the door and opens it as quietly as she can. The room is dark, as expected. The blinds are closed tight against the early morning light that's attempting to peek through, as if that can somehow stop the new day from arriving.

"Hey, Rach. I'm taking Callie to school now," Quinn says softly, hoping to keep their daughter from overhearing and rushing in here. There's no verbal response from her wife; only the barest shifting of the sheets over the indistinct lump that hugs the farthest edge of the bed. This too is expected. The only true acknowledgement of her presence is from Oliver, who lifts his head to glance at Quinn from his place at Rachel's feet. "I'll be back soon."

There's no response to that either.

She drags in a breath, forcing it to expand around the tightness of her lungs, and closes the door as quietly as she'd opened it, grateful that Callie hadn't noticed her detour. In fact, Callie is only now struggling to pull on a sweater like Quinn had instructed—a shaggy red and green monstrosity that's bedazzled with glittery, sequined ornaments and gifted to her by Rachel against every single one of Quinn's objections.

"Oh, sunshine, no," she admonishes, rushing into Callie's room to stop her baby girl from ruining an otherwise lovely (and mostly pink) outfit with that terrible (ugly) Christmas sweater. "Why don't we save this sweater for closer to Christmas?" Even if it is less than two weeks away at this point. Quinn gracefully helps her daughter right back out of that sweater, tossing it on the bed (and resisting the urge to toss it in the trash) before expertly reaching into Callie's closet for something a little more fashionable. "How about this one?" she offers, holding up a more tasteful white sweater embroidered with Marie from _The Aristocats_.

"Okay," Callie agrees, holding out her arms for her mommy to help her into the sweater. Quinn does so with a soft smile, grateful that the stubborn streak her daughter is beginning to display more and more often isn't making an appearance today. She's really not sure how well she could handle it.

Quinn straightens out the sweater, pleased at how well it matches her daughter's outfit, and hands Calliope her backpack. She takes a moment to finger-brush Callie's soft bangs. It's a simple gesture; one that she's performed a thousand times, but today she feels a deeper appreciation for it. No matter what else the future holds, there is this—their daughter with her Tinker Bell backpack and her eagerness to meet each new day with a bright smile.

"You ready to go, baby bear?"

Callie nods enthusiastically. "Uh huh."

And after a stop at the hallway closet to wrestle Callie into her coat, mittens, and hat, Quinn dons her own coat, grabs her daughter's hand, and they're on their way down the elevator and out into the chilly December morning. It hasn't snowed yet, though the forecast is calling for a chance of flurries over the weekend. It certainly won't be enough to ensure a white Christmas with the temperatures still mostly skirting the fine line along forty degrees and a warm front due in around the middle of next week. Of course, everything could change in the blink of an eye.

Everything always does.

There's a skip in Callie's step that Quinn can't quite match, but she's more than grateful for the tug on her arm and Callie's endless chatter about her teacher and her classmates and all things Christmukkah. (Callie's teacher doesn't really appreciate the mashed-up moniker for the joint holiday that their family celebrates, but Quinn doesn't really give a shit what Miss Dolly thinks.)

The walk to the Brownstone School isn't a long one. It's only a few blocks from their building—albeit the long blocks across town. Quinn and Rachel had both been thrilled to discover such a well-rated pre-K program so close to their apartment, and they'd jumped through every hoop and pulled every purse string to get Calliope enrolled. They haven't regretted it.

The school is housed in an old brownstone, hence the name, and, unsurprisingly, the entire street features more of the same. Bricks burnished deep russet bump up against tans and beige, barely any of the buildings more than five stories high on both sides of the street. Some hide businesses and legal offices while others still house families, and at this time of the year, nearly every window displays a Christmas wreath or a Santa Claus face, with the occasional odd fire escape strung with colorful twists of garland and twinkling lights.

In comparison, the stoop of the school is downright dreary, left bare in its natural redstone. The only external nod to the season is the large wreath on the door adorned with a dozen tiny ornaments meant to represent every holiday celebrated at this time of the year. Quinn appreciates the attempt at inclusiveness.

When they reach the door, she squats down to meet her daughter's eyes. "I'll be here to pick you up at two-thirty."

Callie's grin slips. "Promise?" The small show of uncertainty puts another crack in Quinn's already fragile heart.

"I promise," Quinn vows shakily, knowing that she'd been forced to break that same promise yesterday. "You won't have to go home with Aunt Santana today."

Callie shrugs. "It was okay. We had fun, 'cept for Sofie crying. I just got scared when you weren't here."

Quinn swallows against the tightness in her throat. "I know, sweetness. I'll be here today," she promises again.

Callie bites into her lip, still looking hesitant. "Is Mama gonna feel better?"

The air in Quinn's lungs seems to disappear, and she forces a deep breath to replace it, but it doesn't help her form any words. "Eventually," is all she can manage. "But she won't miss kissing you goodnight again."

Quinn will make certain of that, at least.

Seemingly satisfied, Callie offers a nod, and Quinn wraps her up in a hug. "I love you, sunshine."

"Love you, Mommy," Callie echoes, hugging her back.

Quinn presses a quick kiss to her daughter's cheek before letting her go. "Have fun today," she says as she straightens to her full height, moving to open the door for Callie.

"I will." Callie tucks one hand into the straps of her backpack and waves at Quinn with the other as she disappears through the door.

Quinn waves back before pressing that hand to her heart. She knows full well that Calliope can sense that something isn't right, but she trusts her mother enough to let the feeling go and look forward to her day. Quinn wishes that she could do the same.

Her feet navigate down the front steps of the building on autopilot, dodging another mother delivering her child to school before turning her towards home. Her gait is slower than it probably should be, but the pace and the cold air help settle her racing thoughts and roiling emotions. She'd made this same walk yesterday with a spring in her step and joy in her heart, never imagining for one moment that she'd be making a panicked phone call to Santana later in the day, begging her to pick up Calliope at school and watch her for a few hours.

She and Rachel had signed authorizations with the school for both Santana and Teresa to pick up Calliope in their absence. Shelby too, but Quinn hadn't wanted to make _that_ phone call yesterday. She hadn't wanted to make _any_ phone call, but Santana had been closest by location and situation and, thankfully, still on her 'maternity' leave.

It had taken a significant amount of the self-discipline that Quinn had mastered so long ago to pick up Callie last night with a calm expression and a steady voice. Santana had instinctively known that it wasn't the time to ask any questions or say anything that would crack Quinn's delicate facade and send her into uncontrollable sobs in front of her daughter.

So far, Quinn has been doing an admirable job of that.

(Some might call it mechanical. Robotic, even.)

The current numbness of her mind and body doesn't quite translate to her heart, though the world around her seems still and silent despite the hustle and bustle of city life going on as if nothing is wrong. The odd dichotomy carries her into her apartment; dark and quiet. She really didn't expect anything else, but it suffocates her all the same.

She hangs her coat (robotically) and slips off her shoes (mechanically) and pads deeper into the silence (automatically) with sadness falling heavier on her shoulders with every step. The once cheerful signs of Christmukkah scattered about the apartment have turned bittersweet.

She makes her way to the bedroom, taking a breath to center herself before she opens the door. Rachel is exactly where Quinn had left her, curled up under the covers with her back to the door. "Hey, Rach. I'm home."

Once again, there's no response from her wife, but Oliver jumps down from his station on the bed with a vibrating mewl, twisting around Quinn's legs to brush against her calves in a kind of silent support that only a cat can manage. Quinn smiles sadly down at him as she watches him slip out of the room, as if sensing that his humans need their privacy.

Quinn moves to gingerly sit on the edge of the bed beside her wife's curled up body and lays a tentative hand on Rachel's blanket covered leg. "Rachel, sweetie?" she tries again. "Why don't you take a shower while I make you some breakfast? I can make the cinnamon French toast you like."

"I'm not hungry," is the muffled reply.

"You need to eat something." Rachel hasn't eaten since yesterday morning, right before—

"Don't feel like it," Rachel mutters, face still turned stubbornly away from Quinn and half-buried in her pillow.

Quinn's fingers twist into the blanket in quiet desperation. "Rachel, please," she begs, her voice cracking. "I'm barely keeping it together right now. Please don't make me worry about you more than I already am."

Rachel's head finally lifts off the pillow at this, and she glares at Quinn with red-rimmed eyes, letting the sheets fall off her shoulder. "Because this is all about you now."

The flat tone does nothing to soften the sting, sharp and hot, like a slap in the face. Quinn does her best to keep her pain from morphing into anger. "Don't do that. You're not the only one who lost a baby."

"But I'm the only one that lost a pregnancy," Rachel snaps back. " _You_ never had to feel this...this... _emptiness_ ," she chokes out, voice trembling. Her hand clenches into a fist, pressing hard between her breasts, and her eyes squeeze shut in a fruitless attempt to hold back the tears spilling over her cheeks.

It hurts.

It hurts so fucking much—because, _yes_ , Quinn fucking _did_ lose a pregnancy too. Just because it wasn't happening inside of her own body doesn't make the emptiness she's feeling any less real. "I'm grieving too, Rachel," she grits out, struggling to keep the frustration from her voice. "But I can't just curl up in bed and ignore everything while I wallow in my misery." Jesus Christ, how she wants to! She wants nothing more than to wrap her body around Rachel and lie with her in the dark for days while they cry out all of their grief together, but, "We have a daughter who needs us."

Rachel's face twists in agony. "You don't need to remind me that I'm failing her too," she cries miserably "I'm sorry I'm not a perfect mother like you."

Quinn very purposely draws in a deep, even breath before she speaks again. "I don't want to fight with you, Rachel." It would be far too easy to let her own pain drive her into saying something she'll regret—something that would make everything worse. Ten years ago, she might have.

"Then leave me alone," Rachel begs in a ragged whisper. "Please. I can't…" She shakes her head, turning away from Quinn and burrowing back into her pillow. "I can't just bounce back from this in a day and pretend that everything is normal when I...I'm _broken_ , Quinn. I'm _bleeding_."

"So am I!" Quinn growls, instantly regretting the slip of her temper when she hears Rachel's muffled sob. "So am I," she repeats more calmly, "but you..." She stops herself from finishing the thought, realizing that they're skating the edge of a perilous ravine, in danger of falling into blame and accusation.

"What?" Rachel questions, lifting her glistening eyes to Quinn again. "Say it," she prompts when Quinn remains silent. "Just say it."

Quinn shakes her head. "No. I'm not doing this with you right now." She doesn't understand why Rachel seems so intent on picking a fight with her. "You want to be left alone, then fine." Quinn abandons her place on the bed, standing over Rachel. She'll give her wife the space she claims to need, no matter how badly her own heart is breaking. "But Callie will be home at three, and I won't keep making up excuses for why her Mama won't even get out of bed to see her."

She can't allow their daughter to suffer for her mothers' grief.

It was never her intention to make Calliope into a weapon, but somehow, she manages it all the same. Rachel collapses into shoulder-shaking sobs once again, and the weight of Quinn's guilt comes crashing down on her. She has no clue how to even begin to fix this.

Fists clenched in frustration, she leaves the room, quietly closing the door behind her despite the urge to slam it. Part of her wants to run out of the apartment—take refuge outside in the frigid air and let it freeze her bleeding soul—but she can't leave Rachel. She won't. Even if Rachel doesn't seem to want her right now. So she walks until her calves hit the sofa and stops there, standing dumbly in the middle of the living room, surrounded by all the trappings of the season.

The Christmas tree in front of the window mocks her, reminding her of what should (would) have (just two days ago was) a happy time. Her vision blurs as she collapses face-first into the sofa, unable to bear looking at the festive decorations around her for one more second. She curls into herself with her knees drawn up to her chest and gives in fully to her despair, letting her tears flow unchecked.

She can't quite process how everything had gone so wrong so fast. Two days ago, they'd been looking forward to the holidays and a new baby due in the summer. It had been early still, of course, and Rachel had been just as hesitant to look too far into the future as she had been when Quinn was pregnant with Callie, but her caution hadn't stopped the happiness and excitement from building quickly between the both of them.

They'd made that first appointment at the beginning of September, and all of the preliminary examinations had gone as smoothly as they had with Calliope, even if the drugs had been even less pleasant for both of them this time around, and fitting in their appointments at the clinic had presented a bigger challenge with Callie to think about and Rachel's more demanding schedule for _Union City Blues_.

Somehow, they'd managed it in the precious window between Rachel's long hours on set and picking up Callie from the school. (Luckily, the bulk of Rachel's scenes had been filmed between July and August, and her disgustingly early call times had actually resulted in a few free days every week.)

The positive pregnancy test had come on the second of December, and to Quinn, it had felt like the most wonderful bit of history repeating. They'd found out about Calliope in December, and it had been the very best Christmas present. But life isn't blessing them with such an easy journey this time.

Quinn wants to scream.

She wants to curse the heavens and punch the wall.

She wants to forget that there'd ever been a moment, back when she'd been barely sixteen, when the thought of this horrible scenario had even crossed her mind as a favorable _solution_ to her problem.

She wants to not wonder if God might be punishing her for that moment of weakness now.

She wants to not prove Rachel right by making this all about her.

She wants to fucking turn back the clock to yesterday morning and figure out what she could have done differently to stop this from happening at all.

Maybe if she'd kept Rachel in bed all day.

Maybe if they'd gotten to the clinic faster.

Maybe if they'd used Rachel's eggs instead of Quinn's.

Maybe, maybe, _maybe_.

But she knows. Deep down, she knows. There wasn't anything they could have done.

Rachel's body just hadn't been quite ready enough to sustain the pregnancy.

Quinn wishes so fucking much that she could just make this all go away for the both of them—but she can't.

She just— _can't_.

A sob wrenches itself out of her, and she presses a fist to her mouth to keep Rachel from hearing her while her mind spirals back to those first wretched moments, replaying them again and again and again.

Everything had fallen apart just a scant two hours after Quinn had walked Callie to school. She'd left Rachel in bed, resting, on a much needed day away from the set. She'd had to work twelve hours the day before in the mad dash to complete the last episodes they would film before breaking for the holidays. Rachel had been exhausted.

(Now Quinn wonders to herself and only to herself if those long hours and the extra stress had been to blame, but to give voice to those thoughts sounds too much like an accusation, even in her own head.)

When Quinn had gotten back to the apartment, Rachel had been up and making breakfast. She'd been happy and smiling and _fine_. She'd been fine—right up until the moment she hadn't been. That horrible, terrifying moment when, five minutes after Rachel had disappeared to the bathroom for a seemingly normal call of nature, she'd come out with tears in her eyes and skin ghostly white, hands shaking and voice breaking over, "Q-Quinn...I'm bleeding," and their whole world had flipped upside down and dropped them head first into their own private hell.

Quinn can't get that scene out of her head. It plays in slow motion, highlighting every excruciating detail on repeat. Yet somehow, what happened next is a blur that she can't bring fully into focus. There'd been a desperate, panicked phone call, a frantic ride to the clinic with Rachel in tears and Quinn uttering some string of pointless, hopeful words that did no good and made no difference, a sorrowful Doctor Klein confirming that the prognosis was the very opposite of _fabulous_ , and then the blackhole of despondency into which they'd both fallen. Quinn could barely decipher any of the information that Doctor Klein had spewed at them on the _whys_ or _hows_ or _what happens nexts_.

She'd felt numb—until she hadn't.

Rachel's grief had taken her back to their bed to sob into the pillows, cradling her empty belly.

Quinn's had briefly taken her there too, wrapped around her wife and crying hot tears into a curtain of dark hair. She doesn't even fully remember calling Santana or what she'd said to get her friend to pick up Calliope and take her back to her apartment for a few hours, but inevitably, Santana had called to check in, uncertain and unprepared if she and Teresa were to keep Callie for the night while still adjusting to life with their own newborn daughter, and Quinn had been forced to drag herself away from Rachel and their shared pain to be a mother to the precious child they still have.

But Rachel hadn't been ready or able to do the same last night. Quinn hadn't expected her to, not really, but she also hadn't expected that leaving Rachel alone for such a short time would be enough for her to retreat so far into her own grief that Quinn would be left feeling like they're suddenly a million miles apart.

She hadn't expected Rachel to flinch away from her touch when she'd come home or refuse to say goodnight to their daughter or to even leave their bed.

She hadn't expected to have to navigate through this awful place where half her world has stopped spinning but life goes on anyway.

It has to, because they have a daughter who only has one more day of school before she'll be on her holiday break and overflowing with excitement for Christmas and Hanukkah and a brand new year.

Quinn doesn't know how she's going to get through it all with a smile on her face, but then she thinks of Calliope and her innocent joy, and she knows she'll do anything to make her baby girl happy. She won't fail at that like she'd failed at—

Another sob tears out of her throat, and she slaps her palm against the sofa cushion, frustrated with herself and the whole goddamn world. Her heart is breaking for Rachel, for herself, and for Callie and the baby brother or sister that she'll never get to meet. It was only the return of Rachel's heightened caution over all things pregnancy-related that had kept them from letting their daughter know that they were even trying to have another child. Quinn hates that there'd been a good reason for it this time, but she's also grateful to be spared the added explanations.

She's not entirely certain how long she lies there, her grief heavy beneath the heat of her own tears. It might be an hour or a minute or half a day. She's so lost in her own mind that she doesn't hear the sound of the door or the footfalls on the hardwood floor, but she knows that she should have when she feels an arm wrap around her from behind and the press of lips against her shoulder, tearfully whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," over and over again.

Quinn drags in a ragged breath, twisting her body around to find her wife kneeling on the floor beside the sofa with her head bowed and tears spilling over her cheeks, one hand still clutching desperately at the material of Quinn's sweater. Her broken heart breaks all over again. "Rach…"

"Please forgive me," Rachel pleads brokenly.

"Of course I do," Quinn is quick to say, shifting around so that she can face Rachel. She pries her wife's fingers free from her sweater and captures them with her own. "We're both grieving, and it made us say things we shouldn't have." Quinn had stopped herself before she'd let her tongue travel too far down that path, but she's fully aware of how close she'd come. "I'm sorry too."

Rachel shakes her head and squeezes Quinn's hand so tightly that Quinn worries she might actually break a finger. "But it's my fault," she sobs, all but curling into herself right there on the floor.

"No, it isn't," Quinn assures her. "I shouldn't have pushed you. You're right. It hasn't even been a day."

"No," Rachel cries, finally lifting her wounded eyes to meet Quinn's confused ones. "It...it's _my_ fault, Quinn." She lets go of Quinn's hand, only to clutch at her own chest. "I...I did this to us." her face crumples into utter despair. "I lost our baby."

Quinn's stomach lurches, and she practically flings herself onto the floor next to Rachel. "Oh, sweetheart, no." She reaches for her wife, not sure whether to be relieved or terrified by how easily Rachel collapses against her, sobbing in earnest "That wasn't your fault."

"It is. I know it is." Her words are muffled, spoken directly into Quinn's collar where her face is buried, but Quinn hears each and every one, cutting into her, violent and sharp. "I did something wrong. I worked too hard. I was too stressed out. I didn't rest enough. I wasn't…" She shudders in Quinn's arms, sniffling and scrabbling at her shoulders. "I wasn't good enough, and now our baby is gone, and I...I failed." Her voice breaks, and another heavy sob tears out of her chest. "I failed you. I failed us."

Rachel's words echo the shameful, fleeting thought that had flitted through Quinn's head earlier, and it makes her feel sick. She holds her wife tighter and closes her eyes against the burn of her own tears. "Listen to me, Rachel. You did not fail us." The words come out harder than she intends, tainted by the helplessness she feels and her anger at the unfairness of it all. Taking a deep breath, Quinn attempts to calm herself down, and she presses a desperate kiss to Rachel's temple. "You did nothing wrong," she promises, praying Rachel will believe that. "It...it just wasn't meant to be right now."

She feels the bite of Rachel's blunt nails into her shoulder in the heartbeat before Rachel chokes out a humorless laugh. And then she lets go and leans back, hastily swiping at the tears on her face before wrapping her arms around herself instead of Quinn. "Everyone says that like it's just supposed to make everything fine." A single shake of her head rejects that, and her voice goes flat. "It wasn't meant to be. Wasn't the right time. These things just happen. No one's fault."

Quinn offers a gentle touch of reassurance. "It wasn't…"

"But that's not how it _feels_ , Quinn," Rachel cuts in, face awash with pained frustration. "It feels like...like it must be me." She thumps a closed fist over her heart. "It was _my_ body that," she stumbles over the words, visibly struggling for composure, "that betrayed me. You got pregnant so easily. And so did Teresa. And I...I should have been able to...to do this, but I couldn't." She's falling apart again, right before Quinn's eyes. and Quinn reaches for her even as the words keep coming between stuttering sobs. "I couldn't...and I don't know why...why this happened…" Rachel sinks into Quinn's arms, holding on for dear life. "Why did this happen to me?"

"I don't know," Quinn whimpers, holding Rachel close and letting her own tears fall once again. "I don't know why it happened."

They stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other's arms as they mourn their lost baby together. Distantly, Quinn thinks about the comfortable sofa right above them that they should be sitting on instead of the hardwood floor, but she can't find the will to move them, even though she knows her back and leg will be screaming at her later tonight. She thinks that pain is bound to be more bearable than what she's feeling right now.

Oliver watches over them from his perch on the adjacent chair, not daring to come too close but seemingly reluctant to stray too far.

Eventually, their tears begin to dry—at least for the time being—and the weight that's been pressing down on Quinn since yesterday eases just enough for her to feel like she can breathe again. She hopes it's the same for Rachel, who seems calmer now. The silence between them remains unbroken for a time, with Quinn rubbing soothing circles over Rachel's back, occasionally drifting to comb through her tangled hair, until Rachel finally speaks, voice quiet and hoarse. "I'm sorry."

Quinn's hand stills, and she sighs. "Rach…"

"For earlier," Rachel clarifies, looking truly regretful when she meets Quinn's gaze. "I know we both...lost the baby," she acknowledges haltingly, "and I know you're hurting too. I never should have diminished that."

"I forgive you." It's easy enough to do when Rachel is finally opening up to her again and recognizing that they're going through this together. "And I'm sorry I got...frustrated with you." She hesitates over her words, too ashamed to admit to the anger that had been brewing. "I shouldn't have used Callie as a weapon."

"You didn't really," Rachel denies, perhaps more generously than Quinn deserves. "I needed to remember that my daughter still needs me, even if I'm a mess right now."

Quinn mirrors the sad little smile that briefly appears on Rachel's face. She wishes she could reassure her that she isn't a mess, but—well, she kind of is, but, "You're allowed to be a little bit of a mess. We both are."

Rachel nods before her face grows pensive. "Is...is Calliope okay?"

"I think so." Quinn only has her own perception by which to judge. "She's worried about you and confused about yesterday, but she's either got her brave face on or I managed to convince her that there's nothing seriously wrong." Nothing they won't eventually overcome anyway. "And she didn't know about the baby yet, so," she trails off with a helpless shrug.

"Thank God," Rachel says softly, leaning against the sofa and looking utterly exhausted. "I...I don't know if I could explain this to her. I can't even explain it to myself."

"We'll get through this, Rachel. We will," Quinn adds firmly when she notices Rachel's dubious expression. She strokes her wife's cheek with gentle fingers before brushing back a wild curl. "Just...please don't push me away."

"I'll try," Rachel promises. "It's just...it's so hard right now. I...I look at you, and…" The thought goes unfinished as Rachel glances away almost guiltily, and Quinn's heart reels.

"Do you blame me?" The question sounds weak and frightened even to her own ears, and Rachel's eyes fly back to hers in an instant.

"No," she asserts, reaching for Quinn's hand. "No, baby. I think we've established that I blame _me_." Quinn opens her mouth to protest, but Rachel stops her with a hard shake of her head. "I know….please spare me another round of platitudes." Quinn snaps her mouth shut with a frown, and Rachel sighs, voice softening. "I know I need to work through these feelings. And I need to work through feeling like," she purses her lips as if she doesn't want to finish the sentence, but then she sighs again, seeming to decide that she needs to be honest, "you're better than me at motherhood."

And wow—Quinn's heart reels for an entirely different reason this time. "You really do, because I'm not." The mere suggestion is ridiculous.

"In one way you are."

"Oh, Rach." She doesn't need to elaborate on exactly which way that is. It's long been a joke between them (and half a dozen of their closest friends) just how easily Quinn has gotten pregnant. Twice. She gives a little tug on their still joined hands, urging Rachel closer. "Just because it didn't happen this time doesn't mean it never will." Even if some of the details about yesterday are still lost in a haze of grief and confusion, Quinn does recall Doctor Klein assuring them that there were no underlying issues with Rachel that caused her to lose the pregnancy—that it was very possibly a defect with the embryo. "We can try again."

Pain flashes in Rachel's eyes. "I'm not ready to talk about that yet."

"I understand. I'm not really ready either." It's far too soon. "But we might be in the future." And if Rachel decides that she doesn't want to attempt another pregnancy, Quinn is still willing to be the one to carry their second child. They still have the five frozen embryos from their first cycle and now another six from this one. But, "For now, we'll just take it one day at a time."

"One day at a time," Rachel echoes, leaning into Quinn's side and resting her head against her shoulder.

"We're gonna be okay, Rachel." They've been through so much together, both good and bad, and maybe this is the worst thing that's happened to them, but they still have each other and Calliope, so they'll get through this too.

Rachel's only response is a hum, not quite in the rhythm of an affirmation but not a denial either, so Quinn decides to take it as agreement. She figures her wife just isn't feeling up to verbal positivity right now. Really, it's enough that she's out of bed and talking to Quinn again instead of pushing her away.

"I can pick up Calliope today," Rachel offers unexpectedly, though it's lacking her usual enthusiasm. Quinn suspects it's born more out of guilt for not being there for Callie last night or this morning than a true desire to leave their apartment and potentially interact with other people. Picking up their daughter usually involves a dozen or so parents loitering on the sidewalk outside of the school, and Rachel has been ambushed a time or two by a few of them who consider themselves fans.

"I will." It's not a hardship for Quinn to take that walk, and she can happily ignore anyone she doesn't feel like talking to because she doesn't particularly care if people think she's a bitch. She's had that reputation since high school and it didn't stop her from getting (almost) everything she's ever wanted. "Just be here when we get home...give her a hug."

"I can do that," Rachel readily agrees, lifting her head and giving Quinn's hand a squeeze. "I _need_ to do that."

Maybe they both do. "What else do you need? From me," Quinn clarifies, not wanting to push but also wanting to make sure she's taking care of her wife's needs right now.

A humorless chuckle falls from Rachel's lips. "I'm still not very hungry, if that's what you're not-so-subtly hinting around." The corner of her mouth quirks up into a semi-smile. "But I promise to eat something at dinner. And I suppose I could do with a shower."

Quinn scrapes her teeth over her lower lip. She hadn't wanted to push on that front either, but Rachel really does need a shower. The scent of sweat and antiseptic is still clinging to her skin from yesterday. "Do you need my help with that?"

Rachel laughs—not very loud or for very long, but it's a bright spot in an otherwise difficult morning. "I think I can manage. I don't want to taint our more pleasant shower memories with you mothering me." It's said with just enough lightness to relay that Rachel doesn't actually begrudge Quinn the mothering. "And I might need to cry a few more times," she confesses sadly. "The shower might take a while."

"Take all the time you need." Quinn lifts their still joined hands to place a soft kiss on Rachel's fingers. "I'm not going anywhere." At least not until after two when she needs to go pick up Callie, and then she'll be right back here where she belongs—where she's always belonged.

"Thank you," Rachel whispers, and it's clear from the shimmer of moisture in her eyes that her gratitude runs deeper than a shower.

"Hey," Quinn breathes out, reaching over to cup Rachel's cheek. "I love you. Nothing will ever change that." It hasn't in more than sixteen years, despite the fact that Rachel has only loved her back for the last eleven of them. She doubts there's anything that could truly sway her heart at this late stage of the game.

Rachel releases a thready breath, smiling tearfully. "I love you too. Always."

Quinn closes the small distance between them to press a chaste kiss to her wife's lips, light and barely there but enough to offer a small measure of the comfort and reassurance that they both so desperately need. It doesn't magically fix their broken hearts, but it's a balm to the pain that they're bearing together.

Rachel disappears into the shower shortly after, and Quinn washes her face in the second bathroom, but there's really nothing to be done for her red, puffy eyes or the gritty feel of too many tears. Only time can soften the effects.

True to her word, Rachel spends more than twenty minutes in the shower and another thirty after that slowly getting dressed and semi-presentable. Quinn does manage to get her to eat a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch, only because she makes one for herself and a second without asking, placing it in front of Rachel when she finally reappears from their bedroom. It disappears much faster than it would have if Rachel truly hadn't been hungry.

They don't talk much. Two emotional confrontations that morning make them both crave nothing more than the mindless distraction of terrible afternoon television. There's a brief discussion about dinner, but with Rachel claiming she's still not very hungry (though likely meaning that she just isn't in the mood to think about food) and Quinn not much in the mood to cook, they agree that Calliope will be treated to a pizza night.

The weather is still fairly mild when Quinn sets off to collect their daughter, though the sky has turned gray and gloomy despite all the forecasters claiming it won't rain or snow until Saturday. It's warmed up a little from the morning, so Quinn's best guess is rain or sleet if the sky happens to open up unexpectedly. She'd forgone an umbrella, so she's hoping those idiots are right and it's only a few passing clouds.

The gloominess fades considerably when Callie comes bounding down the front steps of the Brownstone School with a smile on her face that brightens the moment she sees Quinn. "Hi, Mommy," she exclaims, thrusting out her (unmittened) hand to show off the snowman dangling from her fingertips. "Look what I made."

A smile blooms on Quinn's face (despite the lack of mittens) as she takes the little ornament to examine it more closely. It's a simple tongue depressor painted white with careful brushstrokes and adorned with little buttons drawn on with a pink glitter marker, a red scarf made from a felt ribbon, a black felt hat that's cut just a little crookedly, and a face of smiling black dots and eyes with an orange nose that actually does resemble a carrot. It's a fairly simple design, but Quinn is still impressed with how neatly her daughter had put it all together. "He's adorable."

" _She_ ," Callie asserts, putting her hands on her hips in a very Rachel-like way.

And okay, _she_ has pink buttons, but, "She's wearing a top hat?"

"Girls can wear top hats, Mommy," Callie points out huffily, looking entirely affronted, and Quinn has to bite back her laughter at the mini-Berry rant. "Mama has one."

Quinn's silent laughter ends in an awkward cough, because, "Yes, she does." Rachel and Quinn have both worn it on a few occasions in the past for various reasons, most of which hadn't involved leaving their apartment or, more specifically, their bedroom. It's currently tucked onto a shelf in their closet where their daughter most definitely should not have been snooping around to see it, but that's a matter for another time, because, "You're right. Girls can wear top hats or bow ties or anything else they want." Callie grins triumphantly, until, " _And_ they should wear their mittens."

Callie's lips turn down into a pout. "But I don't wanna."

"Calliope," Quinn warns, watching her daughter cringe at the use of her full name in place of the shortened form that Quinn almost always uses despite Rachel's near refusal to do the same. "It's cold. You need to wear them."

"I can put my hands in my pockets," she insists defiantly, shoving them in right then to demonstrate.

"You can't," Quinn reminds her, "because one of them will be holding mine." There's no way she's not keeping a firm grip on her daughter on the streets of Manhattan.

"You'll keep me warm."

Well, that's true, but, "The mittens will keep you warmer." Callie's pout is very potent, but Quinn refuses to cave in. She kneels down to her daughter's level. "You can take them off when we get inside our building," she bargains.

With a dramatic sigh that Quinn is very certain she learned from Rachel, Callie pulls her hands out of her pockets, bringing the mittens out with them, and slowly, grudgingly, puts them on with a look of disgust.

Quinn reaches for her daughter's hands to inspect the mittens. "There. Isn't that better?"

"No," Callie sulks, waving her hands around. "I don't have any fingers."

Grinning, Quinn touches the tip of her own gloved finger to her daughter's nose. "Maybe Santa will bring you some gloves instead." She doesn't look forward to struggling to get those on her daughter, but maybe she'll be more agreeable to them than the mittens, though the look on Callie's face isn't very reassuring. Standing up, Quinn holds out a hand. "Come on, sunshine. Let's go home and hang Miss Snowman on the tree."

"'Kay," Callie agrees, taking her mother's hand and falling into step beside her. They only make it about half a block before she finally asks, "Is Mama feeling better?"

Quinn glances down at Callie, noticing the wary expression that's appeared on her face. "A little bit, yeah," she assures her with a smile. It's not even a lie. "And she can't wait for you to get home so she can smother you in hugs and kisses."

The relief on her daughter's face is instantaneous, and her smile is back full-force. She practically skips all the way back to their apartment where, true to her word and Quinn's promise to Callie, Rachel is there on the sofa, waiting to greet them. She still looks a little misty-eyed, but there's a faint smile on her lips as she reaches out a beckoning hand. "There's my little star."

Callie flies into her mother's arms with a happy squeal, still wearing her hat, coat, and backpack. If Callie hadn't shucked her mittens the moment they'd stepped inside the building, she'd still be wearing those too. "Mama! You're better."

Rachel closes her eyes and hugs her daughter close. "I am now," she whispers before kissing Callie's temple. When she finally lets go, her smile seems completely sincere. "Did you have a good day?"

"Uh huh," Callie responds with an enthusiastic nod. "I made you a snowlady."

Rachel gasps dramatically. "You did?"

Callie nods again. "Mommy has her."

Rachel lifts her gaze to Quinn. "Did you steal my gift, Quinn?"

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Apparently, I was just keeping her safe for you." She's still holding her own coat, too caught up in watching Rachel interact with their daughter to have hung it up in the closet, so it only takes a few seconds to reach into the pocket and pull out the little ornament. "She's all yours."

Rachel takes the snowman, looking it over while Quinn draped her coat over the back of the sofa. Rachel's eyebrows lift. "She's wearing a top hat."

"Don't even go there," Quinn warns her with a grin, pulling Callie's knit hat from her head and sharing a conspiratorial smile with her daughter. "Girl snowmen can wear any hat they want to."

"Yeah," Callie agrees, shrugging out of her backpack with some help from Quinn before snuggling onto the sofa next to Rachel despite the fact that she's still wearing her coat. With a chuckle, Quinn sinks down to sit on Callie's other side and begins working her buttons free.

"That's exactly right," Rachel concedes, smiling at their daughter. "She's absolutely beautiful, and I love her." She leans down to kiss Callie's forehead. "And I love you, little star."

"Love you too, Mama," Callie echoes, turning to grin at Quinn as she pulls her coat free. "And you, Mommy."

Quinn's battered heart feels a little less bruised under the warmth in her daughter's eyes. "Love you, baby bear." She tosses Callie's coat onto the sofa beside her and sinks further into the cushions, meeting Rachel's eyes over their daughter's head. Life might have thrown them an unwanted curveball, but what they have here on this sofa is still pretty wonderful.

Rachel sighs, pulling Calliope against her side and stroking her hair. "What else did you do today?"

And just like that, Callie is chattering about everything she did in class, and she has Rachel's undivided attention. At least it seems that way until Rachel's hand leaves Callie's hair and unerringly finds Quinn's, giving it a brief squeeze before letting go. Quinn inches closer, draping her arm across the back of the sofa to encompass both of her girls.

They have a way to go before they heal, but this is a pretty good beginning.

And life goes on.


End file.
